New York, One Gay Date At A Time

Good Conversation

I've been on ten dates without any good conversation. I'm sort of baffled, where has passion and good talking evaporated to.

First there was the 2 hour walk through central park where we talked about the weather. Simply talked about people on park benches and well, nothing. He told me nothing interesting about himself and I in turn tried to nudge the conversation to something a little more interesting, such as the color of socks in winter. Yes, I was truly trying for topics, because earlier in the two hour span of walking, I tried the then current war in the Middle East (I mean, war in Middle East now-a-days can mean anything and anywhere) yet I drew a blank stare. I gave up.

Then there was the blond hottie and cute cuddler, who just wanted to make out and chill, which was totally fun for a while. Then well, turned pointless.

After that came the video game addict.

But for some reason, all these 10 boys have all wanted to buy me something.

I also, like to ask people questions about who they are, what they do, how do they like they're jobs, maybe find some sort of connection. Any connections to actually, find out if I like the guy. During this 10 date process, most of my questions were greeted by one word answers, i.e.

I ask: "what do you do?"
Silence, birds chirp, I check out his cute little nose.
cute boy: "Accounting"
I think I hear siren, some
He stares forward, I sigh a little - shake my head, smile
He looks at something in the distance
I ask again: "How do you like it."
Cute boy buys me lollipop

I think I need to stop dating, just drinking. Or maybe I should attend a poetry reading. Hold on, only dirty old men that sleep next to their gin martinis go to that.

The Reversible Life

I don't know if I'm just melancholy and my depression has once again reared it oblong face, or it's the weather. I think it's mostly the weather that's made me poopy and somewhat drowsy constantly.

I've been feeling like a wet puppy recently, the spurts of rain, me forgetting my umbrella ... all these things. Then again, being overworked hasn't helped, I have stress, lots of it. I have so much stress, I havn't wanted to move or work, just sleep. Watch TV and randomly surf the web. It's like my thoughts have feed into themselves and won't let me go. Churning at night, not allowing me to sleep. Simple things, like finding a director for my play and how to write about arts and crafts have been consuming my unslept moments.

I actually had a massive pissing contest with someone. I finally stood up for myself. Someone who shall remain forever nameless in the blogoshpere was trying to couch me on how I should write, without ever having read my work. I found that to be the poorest of form.

Then I'm left to read fiction in the New Yorker, it seems like they have been publishing work about family, rape, incest, or cell phone family plans. I'm thinking of writing something that drones on and on and gets nowhere quickly, just like this blog post, then submitting it to the New Yorker, yes that is my new master plan to achieve accepted writer status. After reading their fiction I went on to read the five hundredth mention of a young writer who was published in aforementioned magazine to be offered a $500,000 dollar book deal, they went on to write about incest and drug addiction. So the cycle continues.

I need to get out more. I really do, I'm blaming this all on the weather.

The Second Date that Wasn’t

I love sitting in Coffee Shops on Saturdays, I often take my lap top, the people around me, help me create stories. I actually wrote great spots of my play in a cafe ages ago. Great inspiration.

Then a boy sat next to me. We made eyes at each other, not blatant - the look boys give while cruising. Yet the flirting gaze, trying to understand interest. He was reading HX and Next and I finally asked for his copy, that did it, we struck up a conversation, he had been reading the same mag for quite a while, it seemed the right time, that I should start talking to him. I do like it when boys talk to me yet they don't for some reason. So I often take the first steps, much to my broken hearts dismay.

We ended up spending the day together, I listened to his stories, he was an elementary school teacher for troubled teens. I couldn't even begin to imagine what he went through at work, my thought process, simply taken by his normality. He was normal, someone that didn't want to sing or act on Broadway and someone who wasn't pitching. I liked him instantly.

We ended up watching a movie and holding hands, when night fell - we found a park bench, cuddled and kissed.

All in all the perfect first date. I do have to confess. I was taken by his big hands, the manly paws that scooped me up.

Then we parted and promised to talk. He called me the next day. We spent some time chatting, making plans to see the botanical garden a place I've never been to, we also made decided on a trip to the zoo, something I found charming.

Then, I got his call, he had changed his mind, he realized that to much was happening in his life, he decided to call off our second date, he didn't realize that he shouldn't be dating, I got all the lines. The single barbs that I've heard time and time again.  I hate boys that raise my hopes then cancel.

I deleted his number quickly.

Trying again

As well as working a lot, on lots and lots of projects, I’ve been dating. I've wanted to get out there again. Part of me feels like this is a very temporary moment in my life, when everything is going smoothly and good things are happening quickly. I feel like I want to make as quick use of this time as possible.

So I've been going on a lot of first dates recently. I haven't had a chance to write about then. Yet most have just made me even more puzzled - regarding men. One boy felt the need to talk about Jessica Simpson for two hours. I just pretended to listen because he was cute, another hot blond boy, said he didn't like theater. He actually confessed that he fell asleep during the last play he saw and will surly snooze during any musical. He told me this after I told him I was a playwright producing work.

Maybe it’s the spring or the weather or boredom and silent moments. I’m starting to be really tired of being single. I want to actually spend the night with someone and not have them run away. Maybe during the fall boys will be more included to settle down. Who knows. But among all these first dates I haven't found a second.

Then comes the paradox of time, when I'm stable and a good boyfriend, in other words, low drama (relatively) I don't manage to find anyone I'm interested, then when my life is in the air trying to resolve itself, I meet all the wrong guys.

So where is the happy medium I wonder.

 

21 Year Olds

For some strange inexplicable reason, I've been attracting 21 year olds, I don't know why this phenomenon has occurred. I haven't had this many young ones in a row, ever. Not even when I was 21, it's strange that the reverse has happened.

Long time ago, I pined for my peers. I also didn't know that I was into boys, I told myself constantly and with much forthright self righteous vindication that I wanted to find love - with a girl. That a girl was it for me.

Now as I'm 27, I'm finding other bedeviled boys to play with.

Yes I am wiser and can speak my mind, yet other then more life experience, I'm still the same person. Just different insecurities and a lot more questions. It's odd, reminding myself that I was young once. Last night I slept with a boy, that couldn't really tell me what he wanted. He only looked at me, standing there naked, he was blond perfect and wholesome.

I look at myself in pictures, he looked like me when I was younger, I also couldn't tell people what I wanted, what I needed. I don't mean just in bed, with a partner. I mean generally. Earlier in the evening, we talked about his cell phone carrier a lot. I found it thoroughly uninteresting. Yet I listened just to watch him avoid eye contact, yet as I looked away he instantly reveled his blue eyes, he was searching to see if I liked him, I could tell this, because when I was 21 I had the same questions.

Part of my interest in younger guys, recently, okay often. Is finding a muse. Someone that is different. I find myself staring at pages and unable to write yet again. Writing serious work in any case. My play is going to go into production for November, the details are being work out right now. We're on the mad hunt for a director. I'm anxious and hope that I've learned a lot from my previous attempts at team building. Now. I just find these guys, just starting to question the world - a shadow of my former self. That is, still scared of the world, looking for answers - yet in much need of love and caring.

Not long ago I was their age. Maybe I want to remember it in an idealistic sense. Maybe I'm hoping for a spry young one to jolt me out of my doldrum. I don't know, I don't have the answer, maybe when I'm older I'll know.

Swamped

Hey, sorry I haven't been updating, I'm totally swamped right now. I have lots and lots going on and I need a personal assistant. Sigh.

Playing Dumb

I just had an hour long conversation at a party about playing dumb. I can’t do it, I tried, but I can’t. Actually I was told that I can’t play dumb. I’ve likened it to playing Possum. Some people can, I can’t. I’m too energetic and frankly I toss and turn even at night, so I can’t really stay still. So playing possum and acting dumb are two things that I just can’t do.

I should give some back story here. I was hanging out with an actor, a model (still haven’t figured out what he does though) and a dancer. We were talking about being single and picking up boys, who we attract and the like. Everyone professed to their own smarts, I sighed, that’s when I confessed that I can’t play dumb. They all agreed.

Apparently the actor attracted young-hanger-onners. I think these are all young men that complement a certain style in a wardrobe. I wonder if boys that attract young-hanger-onners, much like Picasso, have blue periods, or pink periods. Or maybe just like the young nubile man leading a horse, these young men go through, slender, buff, Ford and Click phases.

This was also the portion of the conversation where I dripped Ketchup on my pants (and I wonder why I’m still single) I don’t think anyone noticed though.

Everyone agreed that chilling out and just letting the boys come to them was the way to go. This is another task that I’ve never actually been accomplished at. I’m always the guy that talks to boys and gets shot down, or I find that they’re playing dumb and I’m not interested. So this paradox, this perpetual understanding of the game, eludes me.

If only boys thought it charming, the spilling of Ketchup.

Cruising

I people watch, I don’t cruise, frankly that weird stare that involves cruising freaks me out and I can never maintain it. It breaks away before anything happens and I run. Then again that stare is mostly maintained by trolls; yes they have mastered the gay stare.

I also cruise; at least that’s what it appears like, when I’m thinking of a play, short story, novel or just generally daydreaming.

So this weekend I was on Christopher Street chilling on a stoop. Watching people go by wondering about they’re odd walks and the way they move and gesture with their hands. I’m trying to crack a play concept about body shapes, movements and how people interact. Something eludes me, the thing that will make the play pop. The only way inspiration will strike. Is if I continue to watch, so hence my need to stare and ponder cute boys.

Not that I don’t do that for sport, yet it’s odd, when I’m just chilling and someone I know, a former lover to be precise, one that I’ve only seen lately when I’m waiting for someone, or hanging back being the cool customer.

So he walks by with a cute Marc Jacobs bag and friend in tow. He casually mentions and notices, that he’s seen me around a lot. That’s code for you’re a loser cruising boys in the village. Then he mentions that I’m a party boy, that of course = you’re a slut. This banter went along for a bit. A look of pity washes over his face as I’m sucking on the straw in front of me, I’m drinking ice coffee. Holding onto the straw like it’s my only saving grace and the reason for saying very little. 

He leaves; I try and play the scenarios in my mind, how I could have made a response, that wasn’t really feeble and shallow and reeked of desperation. Yet I couldn’t so I’m just blogging about it.

The Cool Customer

I’ve been called a cool customer recently, by a lot of people. I always manage to internalize stress; I can always have a smile and act calm when the world is storming around me. I often don’t show the emotion I’m feeling.

Wondering how this translates to my dating pattern, my interaction with the not so cool customers out there. I’m happy that I can control my outlook on life, at times anyway, that’s why my experience, the withdrawing from Celexa was traumatic. I spent a lot of time at home.

At drinks with a friend, who’s known me for three years now. As life has changed for me, she says that she’s found me more resolved and more dynamic; she even used the words “close to normal”. She knows me to well.

The toll that sacrificing my soul to a corporation so early in life, the tax it’s had on me. It’s been many years and I still don’t know. As I look back on my cool customer days the days when I was barely even able to shine a smile or a frown and always needed to be pleasant.

I also found that trait in the manager that gave me such a difficult time on my exit from The Modern. I find that characteristic in lots of business people that have to dole bad news on a regular basis. I feel now, after all these years, I can be a little less chill and allow just a little more of myself to shine through. If only in baby steps of healing.

Weirder Still

I didn't know newspapers had Dom stocked, I mean here at New York Mag, all we have is Fonseca and Sparkling Wine (the cheap stuff left over from last Christmas). I have to talk to someone about this, we need to keep up with the Observer.

As a sign of solidarity with Hova, new Observer owner Jared Kushner has released the following statement:

"It has come to my attention that the managing director of Cristal, Frederic Rouzaud views the 'hip-hop' culture as 'unwelcome attention,'" said the 25-year-old. "I view his comments as racist and will no longer support any of his products through any of my various brands including the Observer nor in my personal life."

Kushner plans to replace Cristal -- which an Observer spokesman said the paper could never stock enough of -- with Krug and Dom Perignon.

[link Gawker]